Gasping for Air
by A. Elisabeth
Summary: Sam and Dean find themselves with a 24 hour gap in their memories, a wraith-like demon on their tail, and an unlikely accomplice as the only person who can provide an explanation.
1. Where the Hell are We?

Disclaimer: This is a fictional work done for my amusement and others. All rights to the characters originating from the CW's _Supernatural_ belong to the appropriate parties, who unfortunately are not me. I am merely a fan who can't seem to get the boys out of my head and am taking my frustrations out via my own plot.

Warning: This will eventually become a Mary Sue of sorts, but I'm going to do my best to ensure it doesn't become too ostentatious. (I know, I know. I'm not that fond of them, either, but this idea's been with me for a while now. Putting it down has been helping me placate the plot bunnies.) It's also the first piece I've published here, so I'm looking for constructive feedback, particularly in regard to characterization and dialogue. I know it's rough; thanks for bearing with me.

**Chapter 1: Where the Hell are We?**

The first thing Dean became aware of was that the sheets he was tangled up in were much softer than normal. He twitched a hand experimentally, twisting a bit of the pillowcase between his fingers, and was surprised to encounter thick, practically new material…not something worn threadbare, and thus rendered soft, by use. This was, in no uncertain terms, a GOOD sheet, which was practically unheard of in the kinds of motels he and Sam were used to staying in, which meant…

The first impulse to bolt upright was countered by the overwhelming realization of pain as his breath suddenly left him and fire shot through his ribs and a pounding headache rose with a vengeance. As he waited with forced, bated breath for the assault to subside, Dean mentally catalogued his injuries: at least one broken and likely a few cracked ribs, concussion, and a tightness in his left ankle suggesting something pulled or sprained. How he'd come to be that way, he couldn't quite recall, but that wasn't important because as long as he could move—and he could—he needed to figure out where Sam was.

A problem which was solved rather easily, he noted, when he finally managed to open his eyes and glanced across the room to find his brother sprawled across a futon mattress resting on the floor, his feet, which would normally be dangling off, propped up by a sea of pillows barely visible underneath a faded-looking quilt. Now that he was awake, he could hear the familiar, rhythmic breathing and found himself relaxing ever so slightly, sinking into the soft mattress and taking a moment to quietly watch his baby brother sleep. No hitched breath or lines of pain on Sammy's face, Dean noted somewhat happily. It looked like whatever had happened hadn't taken a huge toll on them, or at least nothing worse than normal.

Looking around the room, though, Dean couldn't decide whether to be confused or concerned and pulled himself carefully into a sitting position to better grasp his surroundings. Although the walls lacked decoration—definitely not a hotel, then—an armoire with barely viable jewelry sprawled across the top and the rich red and brown comforter currently covering him, plus a baby blue sweater casually tossed across a chest partially visible near his feet, suggested he was in a girl's bedroom, but he didn't remember hooking up with anyone at a bar last night. Couldn't remember _being_ in a bar last night. And it wasn't like he would have dragged Sam along for the ride even if he had. The brothers were close, yes, but not that close.

Shaking his head at the mental image that conjured, he slowly swung his feet over the side and stood up, cautiously hobbling over to Sam to give him a closer look. Up close, Dean breathed a silent sigh of relief as he noted that while Sam had a spectacular shiner going, looking like he'd gone a few too many rounds with Caleb like when they were younger and training, nothing major appeared to be wrong. Still, they were in a foreign environment, and since he still couldn't remember how he got there, he knelt down with a muffled groan and shook his brother's shoulder.

"Sammy, wake up."

He watched with carefully disguised amusement as a hint of the younger Sam briefly made its appearance, reminding him of the days when he'd made sure they were both up and ready for school on time. As much as he'd personally disliked it, Sammy had loved learning, always had, and with the lifestyle they'd led, anything and everything he could do to make Sam's life that much better, he'd done without question. Even when it meant waking up ungodly early. So now he watched, fond memories swirling through his mind, as his now six foot four brother swiped at his eyes like a tired child, digging his head into the pillow a bit more before freezing with the same realization he was sure he'd had. Blue eyes jerked open, and he put out a cautioning hand to save Sam the same fate.

"Easy, tiger," he said softly.

"Where are we?" Sam asked as he looked around curiously, face assuming a puzzled expression as he realized where he was. "Am I on a futon?"

"Just the mattress, dude. Bringing back any fun college memories?"

"More like nightmares," Sam grumbled back as he slowly sat up, wincing as he rotated his shoulder the wrong way. "What's going on?"

"I was hoping you could tell me. Last thing I remember, we were in that diner having breakfast and talking about where to head to next."

Although he'd only been hunkered down for a few moments, Dean felt his muscled locking up and rose, stifling a groan as he did so, before the pain returned. Offering a hand to Sam, he pulled the other man up, watching as his eyes scanned the room. From this angle he could see into the walk-in closet—definitely a girl's room, there were skirts—and spied a sink and mirror in addition to a second door he assumed lead into a bathroom. The other entrance, which he'd noticed during his earlier scan, was closed, effectively cutting them off from whatever was outside.

"Are we…?" Sam started to ask, the hesitation to continue clearly visible on his face.

Unable to resist, Dean waggled his eyebrows and smirked. "Maybe I finally talked you into having some fun, Sammy." His reward was rolled eyes followed by a hiss of pain. "You okay?" he asked, immediately in concerned brother mode.

"Yeah," Sam said distractedly as he rubbed his temples with one hand. "Just a headache."

"A headache, headache, or one of your I'm-about-to-have-a-vision-which-is-causing-my-head-to-explode moments?"

"Just a headache," Sam assured him as he pointed with his chin at the bed stand near Dean's bed. "Look."

Dean turned around and took in what his brother had seen: a bottle of pain relievers and two glasses of water. Glancing at the closed door again, he wondered what was on the other side, curiosity warring with concern. Over the years, he had experienced nearly every version of weird imaginable, everything from the outright crazy to the other end of the spectrum in Stepford territory, and while he still really wanted to know what had happened, the whole atmosphere of this place wasn't making his 'dangerous' meter freak out. A bit empty, it still radiated a sense of home.

Which, ultimately, is what strengthened his resolve to be extremely cautious, jaw hardening. They were in unknown territory with no way of knowing how they'd gotten there. They were unarmed. Whoever or whatever had put them in that position might be out there, waiting for them. Trying to trick them with some unknown agenda.

"Hey," Sam said, distracting him from his internal dialogue, and as he turned around, Dean came face to face with yet another confusing piece to the puzzle. Partially hidden beneath the blue sweater were three bags: his and Sammy's with all of their stuff and their weapons bag from the previous hunt, still waiting to be unpacked back into the trunk of the Impala.

"Our stuff's here," Dean said as he moved over to it, quickly pulling out his gun and slipping it into the waistband of his jeans—making him realize that both he and Sam were fully clothed…aside from jackets and shoes. It was amazing how safe he felt now that he had something to defend himself with, and catching the knowing glance Sam was sending him, his brother knew it, too. "Shut up."

Sam held his hands up in the traditional, 'I didn't say anything' gesture and frowned as he again rotated his shoulder.

"You alright?" Dean asked, suddenly concerned that maybe his initial assessment had been off. Even though Sam had already said he was fine, the kid could be stubborn sometimes, so much like their dad.

"Yeah, Dean, it just feels like I pulled something. Nothing a few Advil won't fix."

Immediately, Dean was digging through his bag, searching for the familiar bottle he knew was there somewhere. Whatever was going on, he didn't trust their mysterious benefactor, which made the pills on the bed stand off limits…at least for now. A moment later he held up the bottle triumphantly and tossed it over. "Here."

Sam plucked the plastic out of the air and wasted no time pulling out the muffling cotton to get at the painkillers beneath. Downing three, he palmed a few for Dean before closing it back up and carefully placing it back in Dean's bag, again rolling his eyes at the chaotic mess his brother's things were in. "Dean," he said, trying to get his brother's attention, but the other man was distracted.

Having decided to give the room a closer examination before breaching the closed door, Dean had walked over to the window to peer outside through the blinds, try to get a feel for their location, when he saw something white and powdery fall from the ledge. Carefully moving the flimsy plastic back, he blinked in amazement at the thick line of salt on the window sill, the whiteness of the blizzard obscuring vision outside momentarily ignored in his surprise.

"Someone demon-proofed the room."

"Both doors, too," Sam said from the first doorway. Dean's eyes switched back to him, falling back into protective older brother mode, as Sam knelt down—without any signs of pain, Dean was pleased to note—and tentatively felt the line. "It's almost like a groove was cut into the carpet and filled. Opening the door isn't going to disturb it."

"Smart," Dean remarked with a grudging sense of respect. "But is it meant to keep something out or something in?"

"I think that if it was meant for us, we wouldn't have been left the meds," Sam suggested as he straightened and walked over to the bags, digging through briefly before coming up with his own gun, which disappeared again in short order as a button-up was pulled on.

"Ya look real confident, there, Sammy," Dean said as he let the blinds fall shut and shuffled over to the bed, easing himself down carefully on one leg so as not to agitate the still-throbbing ankle. He could feel Sam's eyes watching the movement and knew that he hadn't been able to hide the uneven balance of his weight the motion had caused. Growling softly, he plastered a confident look on his face and said, "I'm fine, Sam."

"Uh huh," was the skeptic reply, followed almost immediately by a cautiously prodding hand along his side, causing Dean to wince away, hissing sharply. "Definitely one broken, two more close to it. How's your breathing?"

"Fine," Dean hissed as he shifted away from the painful probing. "Leave it, Sammy, we've got more important things to worry about, like figuring out where the hell we are and how we got here."

Sam continued to frown, clearly unhappy with the response, but backed off as he glanced around the room again. "Anything outside give you an idea?"

"Na. It's snowing like there's no tomorrow. I could barely make out a light, and that only looked a few feet away."

"Looks like we're not going anywhere for a while."

"We might not have a choice. You ready to take a look around?"

Sam drew in a deep breath—which Dean watched enviously—and stood, pulling a somewhat slower moving Dean along. Each double-checked his weapon one final time before moving toward the door. Sharing a glance, Dean reached for the handle and turned it, pausing to marvel at the undisturbed line of salt one final time before moving out into the hallway beyond.


	2. What's Going On?

_Previously: Sam drew in a deep breath—which Dean watched enviously—and stood, pulling a somewhat slower moving Dean along. Each double-checked his weapon one final time before moving toward the door. Sharing a glance, Dean reached for the handle and turned it, pausing to marvel at the undisturbed line of salt one final time before moving out into the hallway beyond._

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**Chapter 2: What's Going On?**

A line of golden, artificial light cut a diagonal line across the floor, disappearing into the darkened entryway directly across from their room, dimly illuminating a red and gold shower curtain and confirming the location of the bathroom. Dean spared a brief glance to his right, taking in and summarily dismissing the rather large bookshelf tucked into the wall, before moving cautiously to his left toward the source of the light, Sam on his heels.

A doorway appeared on the right a moment later, glowing peephole marking this as an apartment. Tiling led from this door forward and to the right into a kitchen while the left branched into a larger room in which he could just make out a lamp standing in the corner near a skeletal-looking futon frame. An overstuffed chair piled with pillows and a rolled up sleeping bag—pink, of all colors—sat beneath the light, a book haphazardly tossed over arm and a tall mug perched on the floor beside it.

Stepping fully into this room, Dean felt more than heard Sam slip into the kitchen as he moved toward the patio door leading out to a small deck. Beyond, the world was a chaotic swirling mass of snowflakes, nearly seven inches having already accumulated against the glass. From here, he could see the light he'd glimpsed before, realizing now that it was a light pole and that the apartment they were in had to be at least one story above the ground. Which meant, of course, that the front door was the only feasible exit.

"There's no one here," Sam said as he came up behind him, the kitchen having circled around into a dining room that connected with the living room. Confirming what Dean had already suspected, the absence of the apartment's owner nonetheless made him uneasy. Why bring them here and then leave them?

"What the hell's going on here?" Dean muttered as he turned away from the window, which had its own unbroken line of salt sprinkled liberally across the base. "You find anything useful in there?"

Sam shook his head. "A few dirty dishes and a laptop on the table, but it's halfway buried underneath a massive stack of papers and old junk mail. Whoever lives here hasn't touched it in a while"

"Great." Dean started to take a deep breath to sigh out his frustration when his ribs protested, reminding him that that wasn't a good idea. Huffing out what breath he'd managed to pull in through his teeth, he walked over to a large group photograph on the wall, taking in almost 20 people packed tightly together in summer camping gear. They ranged in age from about nine to probably 50, so it was more likely a family or community outing. There were three girls in it he thought might fit the age of the apartment's owner, given what he'd seen of it so far, but that was just a guess. Plus, the large sunglasses all three were wearing made it difficult to identify them. He didn't recognize any of them. And he was sure he would have remembered. Two of them were _hot_.

"So," Sam drew out slowly as he leaned back against the wall, carefully crossing his arms across his chest to avoid jarring his shoulder. "Are we going to hang around until whoever it is comes back, or are we going to slip out before they get back?"

"Safest thing would be to head out," Dean said, "avoid a confrontation."

"But we don't know where we are or where the Impala is, and in this weather, it'd be crazy to try walking anywhere," Sam pointed out. "We weren't exactly prepared for a blizzard when we came to town, even if it is Michigan."

Dean cocked his head to the side, thinking. "That strike you as strange?"

Sam looked puzzled for a minute. "Kinda. I mean, we're usually more prepared than Boy Scouts, but…"

"No, I mean the weather. Like you said, it's Michigan, so cold weather and snow are normal, but it's September. That seem a little bit early to you?"

Realization dawned on Sam's face only to disappear underneath a concerned, thoughtful frown. "You're right. Seems pretty unlikely."

"Almost supernatural," Dean drawled out, turning back to the blustering snow with a scowl. "Whatever's going on, I think this is part of it."

"Means there's something else going on in town besides a restless spirit." Sam sighed and banged his head lightly against the wall. "I wish I could remember what happened. I have a feeling it would explain a lot of what's going on."

"You and me both," Dean agreed, staring out into the storm as if willing it to reveal itself to him. "You have any idea what has the power to affect the weather like this?"

Sam shook his head. "A god, maybe. A lot of cultures attributed weather patterns to their gods: Greeks had Zeus, Germanic mythology had Thor."

"You mean the dude with the hammer and wings on his helmet?"

"That's how he's sometimes depicted," Sam said a bit skeptically. "Since when do you keep up on Norse mythology?"

Dean's face contorted in disgust. "Comic books, Sammy."

"Right. Anyway, I'd need to do some more research to know what we're dealing with or how to stop it, but until the weather calms down, I think we should stay here. Who knows what we might expose ourselves to if we go out in this."

"Plus whatever she's trying to keep out," Dean reluctantly agreed with a nod at the salt. "I still don't like it, Sam."

"I'm not exactly happy, either, Dean, but right now this is our smartest option. Unless you'd rather walk out into an unknown situation, figuratively and literally blind."

"I know, I know, "Dean said. Again, the sense of home that the place seemed steeped in was doing its best to get him to lower his guard. Everything from the dishes Sam mentioned—his kind of person, leaving things around—to the book left on the chair, the smiling faces in the photograph, conspired to make him relax, but while he was determined to remain alert, he had to grudgingly admit that Sam was making a lot of sense. Leaving now would put them at even more of a disadvantage. Plus, he really wasn't looking forward to making his way through the blizzard without protection, anyway. He much preferred experiencing such weather from the safety of his baby…

"My baby's out in it right now, somewhere, all alone," Dean exclaimed, eyes widening. "Who knows what might have happened to her. She doesn't like the snow, never has."

He watched as Sam closed his eyes and could all but here his little brother counting in his head in order to keep from saying something. Dean knew Sam didn't appreciate his connection to the Impala, thought he was crazy for being so attached to it. And while he really was worried about her, he was also pleased to see that the outburst succeeded in removing a bit of the tension that had been developing from Sam's shoulders. Even though he was going to remain alert, Sam didn't need to; the kid had enough things to worry about. No use borrowing trouble…or something like that.

"I'm sure the Impala's fine, Dean," Sam said in placating tones. "This isn't the first snowstorm we've been in."

"I know, but I can usually plan to try to park her somewhere under cover or at least out of the wind," Dean said. "She'll never forgive me for this."

"_Dean_."

Maintaining the sorrowful expression for a moment longer before allowing it to fade away, Dean surreptitiously watched as Sam's shoulders eased even further and felt himself relax minutely in response.

"You're right, Sam. We'll just have to find a hunt someplace warm, like Florida, for our next job, and I'll treat her to a tune-up and wax."

Sam just rolled his eyes.

"Now," Dean said, rubbing his hands together in anticipation as he headed toward the kitchen. "What do you see what she's got to eat?" He could feel Sam following along behind him but stop just short of entering, the small space being nearly too cramped for both of them at once. "Girls tend to keep more food, right? Maybe she bakes."

"Dean, it's rude to touch someone else's stuff, especially when we don't know her name," Sam tried to tell him, but a moment later, his stomach rumbled loudly, causing Sam to look down sheepishly.

Grinning at him from where his head was bent—carefully, again, as it caused his chest to tighten uncomfortably—Dean admonished him with a familiar phrase from their childhood. "But breakfast is the most important meal of the day." A moment later he came up armed with eggs, break, and butter.

"And here I thought you were sleep walking all of those morning when we were going to school," Sam said with a responding smile.

"It's called multi-tasking, Sammy," Dean said as he set down the ingredients and began to search for a pan, twisting without thinking and biting back a groan in the process and holding perfectly still as he waited for his vision to resolve itself. "Man, I hate broken ribs."

"It's just one, you big baby," Sam said as he swiftly shouldered Dean aside and directed him to a chair at the table. Allowing himself to be pushed away, Dean was pleased to note that Sam had moved out of mother hen mode and watched for the next few minutes as Sam ransacked the kitchen and began cooking scrambled eggs while simultaneously starting to clean the dirty dishes that had been left lying around. Just couldn't leave them alone.

The toaster was sitting out on the counter next to the stove, and slices of bread disappeared inside only to pop out a few minutes later, perfectly brown. A crock of butter and a knife were thrust in front of Dean a moment later as he was commandeered to help, which he did with increasing enthusiasm as the smell of breakfast began to reach him, reminding him of his own hunger.

In short order, he was cautiously digging in to a plate of food, Sam approaching his more slowly as if guilty about eating what he'd just made.

"Sam," Dean said with a look, "whoever it is won't mind. She brought us home and practically tucked us in. Plus, the meds. I'm guessing breakfast was next on the list. Assuming she's not some raging, psychopathic Annie Wilkes, but even then, we'd still get breakfast. Crazy chicks are…crazy that way." Scooping up a large forkful, he proceeded to chew loudly and obnoxiously to prove his point, smiling around the mouthful as Sam shook his head and started eating.

Soon all that was left were two steaming cups of coffee—French vanilla, of course, although if Dean was willing to admit it, and he wasn't, it wasn't half bad. Sam's was on the counter next to the sink, which he'd periodically pick up as he switched from washing to drying. He'd cast a glance over at Dean as if asking him to help but had apparently given it up as a lost cause.

He was about to make a comment comparing Sam to a girl—with such a great example of Sam's domestic talents, how could he not—when the sound of a key scraping at the lock drew both of their heads sharply to the door. Dean stood up as quickly as he was able, hand drifting back to rest near his gun, and watched as a figure liberally bundled in snowy, wet attire walked in and pulled the door shut behind her with an audible, although muffled, sigh. Stomping her boots lightly against the ground, both boys watched with amusement as a shower of snow fell to the ground. She seemed entirely oblivious to their presence.

Sam adopted his I-may-be-tall-but-I'm-really-harmless look and cleared his throat to get her attention, causing her to whip around and fling more snow everywhere. Before he could get in a word edgewise, a soft but firm voice said, "You're awake. Good. I have a few questions I was hoping you could answer."

Still radiating friendliness, Sam smiled and said, "So do we. We were hoping you could tell us…"

She continued as if he hadn't said anything, blurring the sentences together as if it were a speech she had rehearsed over and over…

"…What's going on?"

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Thanks to JenF for the helpful review. I'm going to do my best to keep Dean's range of motion limited, and painful. Also, I do have something of a classic storyline planned; it'll just take a few chapters to set it up.


	3. We Should Talk

_Previously: A figure liberally bundled in snowy, wet attire walked in and pulled the door shut behind her with an audible, although muffled, sigh. Stomping her boots lightly against the ground, both boys watched with amusement as a shower of snow fell to the ground. Before Sam could get in a word edgewise, a soft but firm voice said, "You're awake. Good. I have a few questions I was hoping you could answer."_

"…_What's going on?"_

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**Chapter 3: We Should Talk.**

The silence continued, no one quite willing to break it, unable to respond to the mutual question that had been posed, and all the while, Dean could see the snow beginning to melt, puddling on the floor and dampening everything it came into contact with.

Finally, it seemed as though the girl could take it no longer, and she reached up to pull off the dripping hat, revealing medium length black hair what was a mixture of limp strands and bed head. Pulling off thick gloves, she absently swiped at it before unwinding the thick scarf that had muffled her voice. Carelessly dropping the items on the floor in the corner behind the door, she turned back to them and adopted an apologetic look. "I'm sorry. That came out wrong. I do have questions, but they can wait. How're you two doing?"

Dean, wariness returning as a result of the abrupt turnaround, plastered on his own smile, the charismatic one designed to sweep anything feminine off its feet. "We're fine, sweetheart."

A bemused snort was the response as a sodden coat was removed and the closet door behind her opened so she could retrieve a hanger for it. "Bumps and bruises, short breath, and incoherency to the point of unconsciousness is your definition of fine? Remind me to dial 911 when you finally decide you've 'been better.'"

Durable winter boots came off next, joining their shoes and a pair of sneakers on the mat near the door. Crouching down, she checked the line of salt carefully where the door had brushed over it and reached into the closet below the line of jackets into a bag of rock salt, spreading it liberally across the space.

Exchanging a glance with Sam, Dean watched his brother's head tilt ever so slightly the way it always did when he was working over a problem. They knew absolutely nothing about this girl—she didn't seem to be older than 25 or 26—but she was taking precautions only someone in the business or else a paranoid, delusional person would take. While she didn't seem like the latter, they're learned the hard way that appearances could be deceiving. Silently, they decided to approach the situation cautiously, not revealing too much until they had a handle on the situation.

A moment later, Sam vocalized the query he'd been forming in his head. "What're you doing?"

Cringing slightly, she rose and absently tugged at the cuff of the oversized, black sweater she was wearing. Refusing to meet their eyes, she instead focused on the sink full of soapy water and the clean state of her kitchen, gray eyes widening slightly in surprise. "I'm checking to make sure the salt line is undisturbed," she said absently before switching into a borderline amazed/accusatory tone. "You cleaned my kitchen."

"Yeah," Dean replied. "It's a nasty habit he's got, trying to do something nice to repay someone who's helped him out."

Behind flushed cheeks, the girl blushed. "It was the least I could do after you saved me from that explosion. You didn't have to do this."

"What!?" Dean said, taking a step forward which caused her to shrink a step back almost into the closet. "There was an explosion?"

"Dean," Sam said slowly, putting a hand on his arm to pull him back slightly. Jerking his head at the girl, his eyes practically screamed, 'Look at her, you idiot,' and for once doing as he'd been told by his little brother, Dean turned and really looked at her.

Bags under her eyes from a lack of sleep, a cut on her cheek and another just visible above a turtleneck on her jaw line. Exhaustion radiated from her in waves, and the way she was furtively glancing at them, hand moving slowly behind her as if in search of something to a.) protect herself with or b.) provide an avenue of escape, Dean came to the conclusion that she was either an exceptional actress or someone who'd been to hell and back. More specifically, she looked like someone who had had the supernatural world revealed to them and was struggling to deal with the revelation.

"I think," Sam said slowly, drawing Dean further into the dining room to give her space, "that we should all probably sit down and talk." Grabbing his coffee from the now sparkling counter, he all but dragged Dean over to the table and pushed him into the far chair, taking his own and pulling it around so that he was next to Dean.

Having thus put the table between them and her, both giving her space and putting her out of immediate range in case she dropped the act—if it was an act—Dean watched as she moved forward into the kitchen, eyes fixed on them though still not meeting their eyes. She was still worrying at the cuff of her sleeve, but she obviously seemed to reach a decision as she relaxed minutely and reached into a cupboard to get a bowl. "I'm just going to…a…make myself some breakfast, if that's alright."

"It's your apartment," Sam reminded her gently. "We're just guests. You can do what you want."

The combination of what appeared to be a familiar routine and Sam's words seemed to work as she relaxed into her space even more, fingers reaching blindly into a draw and pulling out a measuring cup as she pulled down a carton of oatmeal with the other. "Sorry," she said softly as sugar and raisins were also unearthed, "it's just been a long day already, and it's only morning.

"Tell me about it," Dean said, keeping his voice level in an effort to avoid spooking her again. "The last thing I remember, I was enjoying my stack of Bunyan flapjacks and then I woke up in a strange bed I didn't remember being invited into." Which had happened before, he acknowledged to himself, but it usually didn't happen after hooking up in a diner while he was sober.

She gave them a sidelong glance, briefly meeting his eyes before turning to focus on the faucet as she added water to her bowl. "You don't remember anything? Either of you?"

"Ah, no, we don't," Sam told her, watching her closely to gauge her reaction. "We were hoping you could tell us."

"And my day just got worse," she muttered to herself as she all but slammed the microwave door shut, jabbing her finger at a button before heading to the coffee maker and pouring herself a glass. "You'll probably think I'm nuts, or crazy," she said so they could hear, finally turning to face them, although she still left the length of the kitchen between her and the table.

"I can promise you that we won't," Dean assured her, "no matter how crazy it sounds. We've seen a lot of weird stuff in our time." Leaning back slightly, he managed to smirk and look serious at the same time. "Although nothing quite as out there as you looking nervous in your own kitchen. I'm sorry if I scared you, okay?"

At that, she looked almost defiant, a hint of the earlier attitude they'd seen poking through. "Well, I'm not used to anything abnormal happening, which includes me bringing home strange men and letting them spend the night."

"So why did you?" Sam asked. "What happened…yesterday?"

"Yesterday morning," she said as she nodded in confirmation. "Today's Friday." Letting out another sigh, she sipped her coffee before continuing. "The two of you came into Mac's, early; we don't usually get any out-of-towners in that early unless they're diehard hikers, and you don't exactly look the type."

"Obviously," Dean said with a look. "Hiking's for wussies."

Sam frowned. "I don't remember you being there; I thought only the cook was there."

"Yeah," Dean agreed, "it took forever for him to notice us."

"That's because Caroline didn't show up when she was supposed to; she has a hard time working mornings, yet she swears each time she'll make it the next day. Anyway, I haven't waited for the House for a while, but Mac asked if I'd mind doing a few tables until she arrived after he'd taken care of you two. Morning rush was going to start in twenty minutes."

Suddenly, Dean focused on her intently, studying her face before recognition light up his eyes. "Now I remember you. You were that chick in the corner with her face buried in the…" He trailed off as he realized how that sounded, watching as her face reflected her disapproval. Her stance had relaxed to the point of openness now and begun to swing toward annoyance. Definitely more at ease now, he thought, all thoughts of her being a threat almost dissipated except for the lingering doubt that was always present any time he was someplace with relative strangers and Sammy. "You were in the corner reading a book."

She nodded. "I had class at 8:00, and I like to reread some things beforehand to keep it fresh in my memory, but when Mac asks, you can't say no."

Dimly recalling the large, bulky man—even by their standards—Dean couldn't help but agree. He'd been a tank on legs, but the pancakes had been amazing. The man could cook.

The microwave beeped, and the girl came forward toward the table and popped it open to pull out the bowl only to jerk her hand back with a hiss as she burned it on the hot surface. Reaching behind her blindly into a drawer, she pulled out a hot pad and used it to remove her breakfast. Stirring it slowly with a spoon to cool it, she hesitated, appearing reluctant to sit at the table, which would put her within easy reach of Sam's long arms. Finally, though, she tightened her jaw, grabbed her coffee, and slid into a seat she pulled out with one socked foot.

Sam gave her a reassuring, encouraging smile which she returned slightly as she began eating. They let her eat for a few moments until the almost frantic-shoveling had slowed to a more reasonable pace before prompting her to go on. "What happened after that?"

She frowned and gazed of into the middle ground, eyes losing focus as she concentrated. "A group of people came in, some of them together and a few loners. The group was really loud, a bunch of students who'd been out all night and hadn't sobered up yet. They sat down near one of the regulars, Pete, and started messing around with the stuff on the table. Messing around with the sugar, pulling out all the napkins, that kind of stuff.

"Pete and Mike, another regular, got up and left before they'd finished. They can barely stand the kids on the best of days; it's why they show up so early, before most of them are awake."

Dean sighed in impatient frustration, the wait finally taking its toll on his limited supply of patience. "Look, I'm sure that's all very interesting, but none of it tells us what happened."

It seems that she'd had enough because she snapped back at him, sharply enough to cause him to sit back. "The world exploded, okay? It went to pieces and I don't understand _any_ of it. _Any_ of it."


	4. ‘M Not Drinking That

_Previously: Dean sighed in impatient frustration, the wait finally taking its toll on his limited supply of patience. "Look, I'm sure that's all very interesting, but none of it tells us what happened."_

_She snapped back at him, sharply enough to cause him to sit back. "The world exploded, okay? It went to pieces and I don't understand any of it. Any of it."_

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**Chapter 4: 'M Not Drinking That.**

Standing up quickly from the table, so fast the chair behind her shot out a good three feet and almost toppled over before righting itself with a loud thump, she went back over to the cupboards and got out a plastic container, agitatedly spooning the remaining oatmeal into it.

Dean watched the movements with growing concern, listening with only half his attention to her incoherent mutterings as her frustration and fear began to make themselves known. "So loud…too big…scared me…wasn't her…never should have…came out of nowhere…couldn't breathe…her eyes."

Keeping his eyes on her, he leaned over to talk to Sam and found himself compressing his ribs in a way that they did NOT like, freezing him in mid-motion as he waited for the pain—white hot and _very_ insistent—to die down. Dimly, he was aware of Sam's concerned voice next to him calling out his name and a softer, feminine voice suddenly much closer than it had been doing the same, but he could feel a cough trying to work its way up and found that he couldn't multi-task as well as he'd boasted. The effort it took to suppress the rasping itch took all his concentration.

After a minute, a very long minute, he could feel the pain subsiding and fought the urge to sigh in relief in case that sparked a new attack. Opening his eyes, he blinked the world into focus to find the girl crouched in front of him, a hand on his knee. The table had been pulled back to give her room, and beside him he could feel Sam hovering, the concern tangible.

"Dean?" she asked hesitantly, all anger gone from her features.

"'M fine," he said in a rough voice, the breathless quality it held failing to convince even him, much less the mother worried he could sense breathing down his neck. "'M fine, Sammy."

"Sure you are, tough guy," she said as she peered into his eyes, the first extended, voluntary eye contact she'd initiated with them since arriving. "You take any of the Advil I left near the bed?"

Not wanting to tell her that they had suspected her of drugging them, Dean nodded instead and reached for his coffee, wanting to take a sip to ease the tightness in his throat, but she quickly grabbed it and hurried away, disappearing from his vision so quickly he thought for a second he might have blacked out.

"Hey, man, you okay?" Sam asked, hand tightening fractionally. "Maybe we should try and get you to a hospital, just in case."

"It's not that far, only a few miles," she said from her location over by the refrigerator, where Dean could see her pouring a glass of milk, "but I'm not sure it's safe to do even that in this weather. You encounter any kind of trouble, slip into a different lane, anything, and it could just make things worse."

A moment later she was back in front of him, holding out the glass expectantly. Glaring up at her, he said, "'M not drinking that."

Smiling slightly, she leaned down so she was eye level with him, again initiating eye contact, which let him see the sparkle of humor that had grown. "You drink this and I'll consider not forcing you to take one of my calcium tablets." When he continued to glare at her, she set it down on the table with a sigh before stalking over to the kitchen once again and pulling out a large, white plastic bottle which rattled ominously. Before she'd even begun to twist of the top, he had reached for the glass and was taking tentative sips, the cool liquid sliding down surprisingly easy. He could hear her chuckling quietly, Sam's rumbling laugh making itself known as well, but he refused to acknowledge them or their mockery until he'd finished about half of the glass.

"Put those things away," he said, voice almost back to normal.

"Left side of the cupboard, Sam," she said with one final laugh, "just in case." Her face became more serious, then, as she came back over and took her seat once more. "You need to be careful, Dean. I don't know a lot about it, but busted ribs sound like bad news, and I'm pretty sure…no, I know that that's something we can't afford getting worse right now." She drew up a knee and braced her chin on it, arms wrapping around the lower limb in a tight embrace as if she was cold. "You saved my life," she whispered softly into her knee, hiding her face for a moment as she fought for control, "so you can't get worse. _This_ can't get any worse."

Looking at her in the fluorescent light, hair a mess and mood again shifting into dangerous territory—crying women, he just could _not_ handle—Dean rapped his knuckled a few times against the top of the table to get her attention. "Hey," he said quietly, lopsided grin making an appearance as he sought to reassure her. "It takes a lot more than…whatever the hell it was to bring me down. Even Sammy here's got some skills when it comes to this sort of thing."

"Oh, come on," Sam said as he caught on, tone deliberately light. "I'm not the one with the cracked ribs, here." He leaned back in his chair, slouching down a bit so that his shoulders could rest against the wall behind him, the perfect picture of nonchalance. "Obviously, you were having a harder time that I was."

"Only 'cause I was too busy saving your ass to watch my own," Dean shot back, fully intent now on protecting his pride…before he remembered that he couldn't remember the incident they were arguing about and turned to the girl for confirmation. "Right? I was totally caught off guard from behind while watching this idiot's back."

"More like my ass, and I was being an idiot, a frozen deer-caught-in-the-headlights-and-waiting-to-be-smucked-into-oblivion idiot" she said in a low voice, but the panic that he'd sensed rising in it had once again fallen away. He knew she'd have to deal with it some time, but that was more Sam's department than his, the touchy-feely mumbo jumbo that he absolutely did not, did not, ever indulge in…except during those rare cases when Sam really seemed to need it. Whatever Sam needed, Dean was willing to provide in a heartbeat, as long as it was never brought up again.

"It happens," Sam said easily, "to the best of us and usually at the worst possible time. The fact that we're all here and in once piece means you must've done something right."

She cast him a grateful look, smiling softly before unfolding herself from the tense position she'd assumed and relaxed back into her chair, hand creeping out to fold around her coffee cup again. Picking it up, he peered accusingly at Dean over the rim, eyebrow rising up as she glanced meaningfully down at his still half-full milk glass.

"Seriously?" he asked incredulously even as he reached for the glass obligingly.

Hiding a smile behind her mug, she caught his gaze again and said a brief, heartfelt, "Thank you" before launching back into her story, voice trembling at times but firm. Dean wasn't sure what it was exactly that she was thanking him for—whether it was saving her life, calming her down, or listening to her without complaining too much—but he could see that the action had made her feel better, so he nodded his acceptance of the thanks and listened carefully as she continued, the words triggering half-memories in his mind so that he could almost imagine the events as she described them.

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So, now that you've had a couple of chapters to experience "the girl," what's the reaction to her? Any suggestions on how you want to see her handled?

Thanks also for the reviews; they're much appreciated.


	5. The World Exploded, Part I

_Previously: Hiding a smile behind her mug, she caught his gaze again and said a brief, heartfelt, "Thank you" before launching back into her story, voice trembling at times but firm. Dean listened carefully as she continued, the words triggering half-memories in his mind so that he could almost imagine the events as she described them._

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**Chapter 5: The World Exploded, Part I.**

Although the first day of autumn was still a few days away, the morning light was beginning to make its appearance later and later, so when the Winchester brothers walked into the quaint Michigan diner that morning, it was still relatively dark outside, only the barest hint of the sun beginning to show on the horizon in a spectacular, deep crimson reflected on a few scattered clouds in an otherwise clear sky.

The relatively simple job which had lured them to this backwater town had been resolved the night before: a standard salt and burn that had _almost_ had Dean wishing that something more exciting had happened. He'd almost vocalized the sentiment to Sam once as they were packing up the Impala but thought that his little brother would yell at him for tempting fate, a feeling he shared but nonetheless could not entirely embrace. The next job, he promised himself, would have more edge to it, more for him to do besides watch Sam research for a couple of days and then tell him where to dig.

The plan was to eat and early breakfast to give them more time on the road as they headed toward Bobby's; the older hunter had called them the other day and asked for some help on a case of what appeared to be a whole nest of vampires who'd made the mistake of pausing in a town near the junkyard. The body count was rising quickly, but Bobby didn't think he could handle all of them alone. 'And he shouldn't have to,' Dean thought to himself as he slid into an old, cracked red vinyl booth across from his brother, who was focusing on the menu. The man who had become such a significant figure in both their lives had asked for help, and after all Bobby Singer had done for the Winchester family over the years—including keeping a surreptitious eye on the boys after their dad's death—such a request could not go unheeded.

Glancing around the diner in search of a waitress, Dean took in his surroundings as he always did in a new place, mentally assessing its relative safety or lack thereof. Although everything in the place was old, predating both boys by a few years at least, it was obviously well cared for. Someone had put a lot of time and energy into its upkeep, the solid wood furniture, crafted to resemble traditional log cabin walls, showed evidence of recent varnishing to cover new scrapes. Red and white plaid table cloths, also showing signs of wear but likely newer, lay crisply across the surfaces they protected, precise lines indicating that they had been carefully folded not too long ago. Even the vinyl he was sitting on, though showing its age, was smooth, lacking the sticky or tacky feeling most places like this tended toward.

No staff in sight, Dean made note of the diner's four other patrons, resisting the urge to count the life-size wood carving of a lumberjack standing ominously in the corner, even though his painted eyes seemed to be staring at him. Two older men, _Pete and Mike_, were sitting across from each other in a booth a few places down the line of windows from the Winchesters, talking quietly over coffee with dirty dishes scattered between them. Across the way at a table with chairs was another man, this one dressed sharply in a suit and tie, with his head half hidden behind the morning newspaper. For a moment, he seemed out of place to Dean, until he remembered the rush of early morning traffic that passed by this hamlet of a town, which was near the beginning of a successive streak of towns on the commuter route to the city about 45 minutes down the interstate. Finally, he could also make out a dark-haired chick in the back corner, locks spilling down across her face which was buried in a book.

A moment later Dean was distracted by the arrival of a tall, thick-chested man with a checkered shirt, blue jeans, and apron, the barest hint of flour dusting the crevices of his hands. "What'll you boys have?" he asked in a deep, baritone voice.

"I'll have a stack of your house special," Sam said as Dean quickly turned to his menu and began looking through it. "Eggs over easy, no bacon. And coffee, black."

No sign of a pad or pencil anywhere, Dean felt absolutely certain that the man wouldn't forget as he closed the booklet and lay it on the corner of the table on top of Sam's as he looked up at the mountain standing beside the table. "The Bunyan flapjacks, coffee, and I'll take his bacon," he said with a smile at Sam, who rolled his eyes skyward, probably sending up a prayer for Dean's arteries.

Nodding slightly, the man turned and headed back into the kitchen he'd appeared from, moving silently across the linoleum floor. "Food'll be out in a bit," he said over his shoulder, pausing before the door to converse with the girl in the corner.

_"Mel," he said quietly as his eyes took in the mound of books and papers she had piled next to her empty plate. "You have time this morning to wait on a few tables before you head out? Caroline's late."_

_ She looked from the text she'd been reading to the clock on the wall behind him, doing her best not to meet his eyes. It would be cutting it close, but this was Mac asking her. She'd never been able to say no to the man who'd treated her so well over the past few years._

_ "For a little while," she said with a playful sigh, "at least through the worst of the rush."_

_ "Thanks."_

_Taking a minute to pull her things together and shove them into the messenger bag that had been sitting on the booth seat next to her, she disappeared into the back after Mac to get and apron and tablet, never having mastered Mac's talent at remembering orders. By the time she'd done all that, she could see him delivering meals to the out-of-towners who had walked in earlier._

In a surprisingly short amount of time, the boys had their breakfast, which Dean decided was as close to heaven as he was ever going to get. "Dude," he said around a mouthful of pancake and syrup, "these things freaking awesome."

Sam nodded in agreement, face drawn into a slight frown of disgust at the sight of his brother talking with his mouth stuffed that full. Although, he thought he might be getting desensitized to the experience as it didn't gross him out as much as it used to.

"We should try and swing past here more often," Dean continued, ignoring his brother's displeased look. "It's not that far out of the way, and these things are worth a few extra hours on the road."

Behind Dean, the bells on the door chimed as it opened and _a group of students came in followed quickly by a man in old, worn clothing and a hard hat, a construction worker. Not two seconds after that, a nervous man in a cheap suit also came through, eyes darting between his watch and the other diner guests every few moments._

_ Mel suppressed a sigh as she watched the noisy group of students slide into a booth right behind Pete, whose face immediately reflected his annoyance with the situation. She knew that he appreciated the quiet of early mornings just as much as she did, and this group of late-night partiers—she could smell the alcohol wafting off them even from the kitchen door—had just summarily slaughtered that blissful silence in an instant. It didn't help that they immediately began tearing apart anything they could get their hands on, spinning the sugar container around like a top until it toppled over with a crash, throwing granules everywhere, pulling out napkins from the dispenser only to stack them in a messy pile on the table._

_ She reluctantly approached the table, smiling resolutely at Pete and Mike as they rose from their seats and headed out, sparing her sympathetic glances as they went. Squaring her shoulders and plastering on a smile, she paused just outside of arm's reach and said, "Welcome to Paul's Flapjack House. What can I get for you this morning?"_

_ "How about a little attention, sweetheart?" one of the guys near the window said, almost yelling, as if he'd been at a concert all night and couldn't hear his own voice. His eyes slowly scanned her up and down, causing her skin to crawl, a feeling which was compounded when the others joined it. "Yeah." "Some company'd be nice." "Why don't you take a seat?"_

_ Gritting her teeth, Mel fought to keep the smile on her face to hide her dislike. "Food's the only thing on the menu this morning, so what'll it be? Maybe you need a few more minutes to decide?"_

_ Appearing slightly defeated by her lack of response, a grumbling chorus of assents had her gratefully retreating behind the counter where she picked up the coffee pot and headed over to the other new customers, stopping first at the business suit's table to see if he needed a refill._

_ His eyes darted up to meet hers momentarily as he nodded his thanks, and she almost took a step back in shock at what she saw. Although he shared the tense lines around the eyes and slight pinched expression that indicated the students were too loud for his taste as well, the pupils of his eyes almost appeared to be going white, rapidly losing their color as if from a sudden onset of cataracts. Mel blinked, and a moment later he was focused on his paper once more, the incident feeling more like a dream than anything else._

_ The two new customers were much easier to handle, although the man with the nervous twitch was so abrupt in his requests that he stopped in the middle of his order twice and had to be prompted to continue…almost as if he thought he'd given his order already and expected her to leave. Again and again, his eyes darted to the door, and then, just for a moment, his eyes would freeze and focus on it so intently, so completely, she halfway suspected he might be trying to open it with his mind._

_ Still reeling from the odd encounter with the businessman, Mel did her best to avoid making eye contact with him, which turned out not to be a problem as she seemed to fail to register on his continual scanning pattern, the furtive movement of his coal-colored eyes preventing her from getting too close a look._

_ Meanwhile, the group of student was becoming progressively louder, laughing hysterically as one of them amazed the rest by tearing the pile of napkins into shreds and throwing them into the air in clumps like snow. Each shower sent the high-pitched laughter louder, and as she quickly stopped by the cute guys' table and refilled their cups with an apologetic smile—the older one breaking his own rather annoyed expression for a moment to _smile at her_—before heading for the kitchen, intent on fetching Mac to have him resolve the situation, a sudden silence caused her to pause in mid-step and whirl around_.

_Every one of the students was gaping like a fish, mouths open and moving but soundlessly, eyes wide to the point of bulging in confusion and growing panic. Hands flew to necks, scrabbling for purchase as if trying to loosen a choking hold, but there was nothing there, nothing to explain why six guys were suddenly terrified, faces slowly changing color as Mel realized they weren't getting enough air. They were gasping for breath, but something was preventing them from getting it._

_ About to take a step forward toward the table, intent on helping them even though she didn't know what she'd do, Mel was again halted, this time by a sound as a chair was sent scraping across the floor, the shriek emulating nails dragged torturously across a chalkboard. Wincing in pain, she turned slightly to face the source and watched as _the man in the suit snapped his paper closed_ and tucked it underneath his arm, pained tension gone from his face only to be replaced with a cold smile that froze Mel to the core, scaring her with the grim intent written on that calm, chiseled surface._

_ His eyes, having momentarily appeared faded before, were now pure white as if rolled back in his head, but the unerring aim he had as he lifted his free hand toward the seated patrons—Mel being the only one to his back except for Mac, who had appeared at the entrance to the kitchen—indicated he was still seeing clearly. "That is enough," he said softly, the words carrying in the sudden silence punctuated only by the frantic motions of the students, who were thrashing about in earnest now. Fingers slowly clenching into a fist before him, Mel raised a hand to her own throat in astonishment as she abruptly found herself gasping for breath herself, the diner seemingly devoid of air._

_ Across from her, the two men jumped to their feet and surged toward the man from opposite directions, weapons appearing from out of nowhere._

_ Before they could do anything, however, one was sent flying into the wall, the impact a sickening thud, as he slid down and lay still. The second never even made it that far as an arm out of nowhere punched him in the face, turning his whole body and flinging it down and away, toward his companion, with its force._

_ The nervous man shook his hand as if to dispel the force of the blow and turned to the businessman, coal eyes now looking almost completely black as he yelled something incomprehensible. The first barely acknowledged him, flicking a hand as one might to chase away a fly, and while the motion did not propel the twitcher across the room, it did cause him to stagger back a few steps toward the front door._

_ Mel sank to her knees, eyes riveted to the scene even as darkness began to encroach upon her vision, so she was still watching when the door opened with a deceptively innocent jingle again as Caroline walked in. Only…it wasn't Caroline. She was dressed for work in the standard plaid shirt and denim, hair pulled back into pigtails as she always did in an attempt to project a more "small town" vibe, but her face was utterly still, no hint of its normal grin apparent, and her eyes were black, absolutely black._

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In case it isn't clear from the formatting, everything Dean remembers is formatted normally while everything in italics is the story of what happened as narrated by Mel.

My thanks for the reviews; they're wonderful motivators.


	6. The World Exploded, Part II

_Previously: The man in the suit snapped his paper closed and tucked it underneath his arm, pained tension gone from his face only to be replaced with a cold smile that froze Mel to the core, scaring her with the grim intent written on that calm, chiseled surface. His eyes, having appeared faded before, were now pure white._

_Mel sank to her knees, eyes riveted to the scene even as darkness began to encroach upon her vision, so she was still watching when the door opened with a deceptively innocent jingle again as Caroline walked in. Only…it wasn't Caroline. Her face was utterly still, no hint of its normal grin apparent, and her eyes were black, absolutely black._

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**Chapter 6: The World Exploded, Part II.**

_ Ebony eyes sweeping across the room languidly, Caroline—or at least, the thing that looked like her—smiled, a grotesque parody of human expression that twisted her face into something inhumanly evil. Briefly, her eye fell on the nervous man, who had straightened from the crouch he'd fallen into after being…pushed back, before focusing on the man with white eyes standing near the middle of the room. "Well, well, well," she said slowly, lazily, "what have we here?"_

_ Momentarily allowing his eyes to stray from his primary focus, the now all but limp students who had been reduced to feeble twitches as unconsciousness took hold, the businessman gazed at her with a vague air of annoyance, the barest of creases forming between his eyebrows as his eyes narrowed. "These mortals were loud," he said, voice carrying in the stillness, face hardening once more as he turned back to his prey. "I found it necessary to restore order and silence."_

_ Not-Caroline held up her hands in a placating gesture and shifted to the side slightly in a display of deference, smile never wavering. "Fine," she said easily. "I'm here for the Winchesters, not them, anyway, so I'll just collect what I came for and be on my way." She turned to the now-calm man hovering at her side, whose eyes were now completely black as well, and gestured toward the two fallen men who had attacked earlier. "I've got a car waiting outside; load them up."_

_ Making to move forward, the man was once again halted by an unseen force which he strained against in vain, causing the nervous tension to return once more and the smile on Caroline's face to falter slightly._

_ "Look, friend," she said as she herself attempted to take a step forward only to encounter a similar problem, the smile dropping completely in anger. "I'm not trying to step on any toes, here, but those two are mine; I spent weeks tracking them down and am not about to let them be snatched through my fingers by some…"_

_ She was abruptly cut off by a single, graceful gesture of a hand demanding silence. "Go back to your pit, youngling; these mortals have offended, and I will not leave until I have exacted my punishment upon them."_

_ At that point, Mel found herself unable to pay attention as her lungs began to demand oxygen in earnest, yet as before, she found herself unable to do anything. There was nothing to fight against, no noose or tie to loosen, no tightening grip to batter against. Collapsing onto her side, head connecting roughly with the battered floor of the diner, she found herself blacking out and wondered if this is what it was like to die, to slip away into the consuming darkness. It really wasn't as bad as she thought it would be, now that the fogginess had descended. In fact, it was almost comforting in a way, and she felt herself slowly relaxing into the expanse. A place where she didn't have to worry about why Caroline's eyes were completely black, a place where the man with the white eyes was just a distant memory, a place where the cute guys at the table hadn't been tossed around like rag dolls, a place where life was the way it had always been: simple…ordinary…peaceful…quiet, blissfully quiet…_

_ Air—sweet, pure air—suddenly found its way back to her, and Mel inhaled sharply only to spark a coughing fit which raked her frame harshly, chest spasming with the almost unfamiliar yet necessary sensation. For a time, that was all she could focus on, the painful pleasure of drawing oxygen into her lungs once more, but even as she concentrated on breathing—which while significantly eased by the return of voluntary, productive, inhalation, was still proving more difficult than normal—the more immediate concerns of her surroundings came flooding back, and her eyes flew open to take in the scene around her._

_ It was as if the world had exploded around her, and chaos reigned, destroying everything in its path. Winds such as she'd only ever felt during one of the winter's major blizzards whipped through the diner, sending everything light enough flying dangerously around like airborne landmines. Napkins, menus, bits of the newspaper, utensils, even the construction worker's hard hat—which she saw whizzing by far too close to her face for her liking—scattered across the room creating a whirlwind with the man with white eyes at its center._

_ Unaffected by the torrent, his clothing remained in perfect order, his gaze was locked with Caroline, who was braced against the winds but remained the only other person left standing. They were shouting at each other, but while she could catch a word here and there, the din created by the connecting of debris with the walls and furniture was enough to drown out the majority of what was being said. It was clear, however, that anger had long since become the dominant emotion in their discussion as both faces were broadcasting displeasure to the point of irrational rage. Hands raised, it looked as if they were gesturing wildly at each other, and Mel thought—and it was only a passing thought because how could it actually be true—that the winds were reacting to the motions, sending items spiraling at each other regardless of the obstacles._

_ The construction worker who'd come in earlier, devoid of his helmet, lay a few feet from her, sprawled across the floor in a limp heap. Blood poured from a gash on his forehead where something had struck him, a pool steadily growing beneath his head suggesting he'd been that way for some time at least. Beyond him, the table of students was entirely, eerily still now except for their whipping clothing as the wind tore at it, battering them like a demanding child asking them to get up and play._

_ Movement in the corner of her eye caught her attention, pulling her focus easily away from what the back of her mind suspected was a tragically morbid scene, and she saw the nervous man braced against the winds, seemingly oblivious to the objects continually making contact with him and raising all number of cuts and bruises, making his way slowly toward one of the two young men she'd seen tossed aside earlier…the taller one who lay a little behind her to the left. Barely five feet away, his progress was slowed to inches at a time, and Mel watched in a disconnected, vaguely interested fashion as the young man began to move slowly as if waking, head rolling back and forth as if to clear it._

_ Somewhere in the back of her mind, Mel realized that allowing these two to come into contact was a bad idea, the nervous man with the black eyes was bad news, and she began to test her own limbs cautiously in anticipation of movement. She wasn't sure what she'd do just yet, but she'd have to try something._

_ Or not, as it turned out, as the second of the pair rolled into view from behind the counter he'd collapsed under, arm extended with gun in hand. Even amid the chaotic clamoring filling the diner, she could hear the sharp retort and watched with bated breath—aided by the difficulty of breathing against the violent gusts—as bullet after bullet slammed into the standing man's torso, causing him to stagger back under the onslaught. To her amazement, the shots appeared to cause little damage. Rather, it was the unbalancing the impacts caused which helped bowl the man over and send him crashing to the ground and skidding within arms' reach of Mel._

_ Terrified at the sudden proximity and suddenly oblivious to everything else, she scrabbled against the floor for anything she could get her hands on, grasped the first thing her fingers encountered, and heaved/rolled it at the man with all her might. The tiny glass container impacted his face sharply, which sent the top flying and white granules scattering into the air in a miniature cyclone before being separated into the swirling mass that now hung above everything._

_ Immediately, a violent reaction occurred as twin wails resounded, rising above the noise of the wind. Mel watched as tiny bits of smoke and blood simultaneously sprung from the nervous man's face where about a third of the salt had fallen down, responding to what little gravity could be brought against something so small and lightweight considering the circumstances. He clawed at the area with both hands, desperately rubbing the surface even as she recoiled as began crawling away as quickly as she could. The wind seemed to respond to his agony as it redoubled its efforts to batter the rustic diner into oblivion, and breathing once again became difficult as she struggled to inhale against the onslaught._

_ Chin tucked down in an attempt to breathe easier, she collided with the stools in front of the counter and jerked, startled by the impact, before making her way to the left toward the man she'd been intent on helping earlier. It wasn't a conscious decision at that point, panic and fear telling her to get away as quickly as possible, so a moment later when a hand grabbed her by the arm and pulled her roughly that way and around the corner into the relative shelter created behind the counter, she lost it and lashed out against the confining grip, which refused to let go and simply tightened. A face rose in front of her, then, capturing her gaze firmly and calming her down as she responded to the casual, assessing, pained eyes of the armed man who'd fired the gun moments ago. Also tucked away behind the counter was the taller man, almost awake now, and a slightly battered but intent Mac, who was looking at her with concern._

_ Taking a mental breath and calming herself through sheer force of will, Mel focused on the face in front of her and realized that her rescuer was attempting to yell something at her, mouth forming the word deliberately, likely in the hopes that she'd either hear him or be able to interpret through lip-reading._

_ 'Salt.'_

_ Mel frowned in confusion for a moment before remembering the reaction she'd witnessed moments before and all but dove for the cupboard door the tall man was leaning against, insistently motioning him aside as she scrabbled to pull it open. Seconds later she had several of the spare salt shakers in hand, and she turned around to show her prize to the cute guy, who smiled in response—oozing charm despite the circumstances. She smiled back slightly, the motion tense and bordering on hysterical, as she handed over her bounty, reaching back into the cupboard for several more which she passed to Mac even as she held on to two for herself._

_ Her hands shook as she twisted at the tops—parodying the students and their childish antics of earlier—and then turned back to the two men, eyes begging for direction, answers, anything that would help her understand what to do next, how to make sense of the situation, how to survive it._

_ The shooter, who rose up into a half-seated position with a pained expression—freezing in place for a moment, eyes squeezed shut, as he seemed to try to collect himself—glanced around to make sure he had everyone's attention before pouring a handful of salt carefully into his palm, making a fist, and raising the hand in an exaggerated throwing gesture. His companion nodded immediately in comprehension, as did Mac, but Mel was still confused. However, there was no more time as the three men scrambled into crouched positions as quickly as they were able, all of them moving slowly with cautious, pained motions eased by the rush of adrenaline and necessity. Mel scrambled to copy them even as she tried to figure out what was going on._

_ Raising a fist, the shooter began a countdown to…something._

_ One._

_ Hands raised to grasp the edge of the countertop in anticipation._

_ Two._

_ Muscles visibly tightened in preparation…of throwing the salt into the swirling air above, Mel realized as the nervous man's reaction coupled with the shooter's motions finally added up._

_ Three!_

_ Four hands simultaneously sent a cloud of salt into the air which was quickly whisked away to be followed by rapid, successive follies and hands were refilled and launched._

_ As before, the reaction was nearly instantaneous but much more violent this time, a booming shriek that increased rapidly in pitch to the point of shattering glass, causing the glasses also resting below the counter to explode outward onto the four cowering figures. Mel turned her face away as she felt sharp edges bite at her face, hands flying up to cover her ears, salt forgotten, and an instant later felt a warm body drag her to the floor and cover her protectively as the assault continued. The screaming had plateaued and continued at its ear-shattering level, the very air vibrating with rage and pain, bringing a flush to her cheeks as she began to cry silently, begging for it to stop._

_ Seconds later she realized that it wasn't just her face that felt warm; the very air was beginning to heat, and she twisted her face slightly to look sideways across the floor as an orange glow began to rise up, reflecting against the lacquered surface of the fake wood paneling Mac had painstakingly maintained for years. Deeper and deeper, the orange glow became until the breath burned in Mel's chest and she could once again feel the oxygen being stolen from her. Her breath sped up in panicked response even as her eyes slid shut in silent prayer that this nightmare be over._

_ A moment later, her wish was granted._


	7. The World Exploded, Part III

_Previously: Seconds later Mel realized that it wasn't just her face that felt warm; the very air was beginning to heat, and she twisted her face slightly to look sideways across the floor as an orange glow began to rise up, reflecting against the lacquered surface of the fake wood paneling Mac had painstakingly maintained for years. Deeper and deeper, the orange glow became until the breath burned in Mel's chest and she could once again feel the oxygen being stolen from her. Her breath sped up in panicked response even as her eyes slid shut in silent prayer that this nightmare be over._

_A moment later, her wish was granted._

* * *

**Chapter 7: The World Exploded, Part III.**

_The world exploded with a roar, an awful sound that resonated deep within the four people huddled behind the counter and continued to hammer them with relentless waves. Winds peaking far faster than anything yet experiences blew outward from some central, unseen location, and battered across the expanse over the counter with terrifying force, the air awash with rolling, billowing clouds of orange flame which lapped at everything in their path, raining bits of burning debris—flaming napkins, scorched menus, and other things best left nameless—upon crouched backs._

_Larger, successive impacts could be heard now as the ante was upped from minor object to furniture as tables, chairs, stools, the corner jukebox, anything remotely movable was sent scattering into oblivion, crashing into each other, disintegrating in seconds. Built during an age of sturdy, dependable craftsmanship, the counter weathered the onslaught with stoic constancy, shuddering with each impact but holding even as flames encroached upon it and began vying for a taste._

_Mel thought that she was screaming, but she couldn't hear her own voice, and the ringing mental cries resounding through her head were enough to cloud any actual perceptions anyway. She could feel the warm body pressed above her shudder and jerk with unseen impacts she could only image even as it curled more tightly around her and she shamelessly fell into the tenuous comfort the rather heroic effort provided. Eyes still kept tightly shut, she turned her face to the floor and began praying, focusing her mind on the repetitive, comforting words that had been drilled into her since childhood, hoping desperately to ease these final moments as she waited for the end._

_An end which never came, at least in the form she was anticipating, as with one last roar of defiance, the apocalyptic firestorm subsided into an almost gentle purr in comparison, the air resolving itself to a more normal state as the barest breath of wind, chill and crisp, swept easily over them and chased away the heat._

_For several long moments, no one dared to move until a moment later Mel heard the familiar groan of Mac moving from a position he'd held for too long and the equally familiar and dear voice sounded softly from her right._

_"Mel?"_

_Struggling against the suddenly heavy weight above her, Mel realized that her protector had slipped into unconsciousness and did her best to roll him off her without causing more damage as she remembered the pain that been reflected in his eyes earlier. Mac reached down to help her, and seconds later she was wrapped in a warm, crushing embrace similar to the one she'd been in moments ago, this one smelling of pancake flour and pine._

_Holding on to him tightly, she felt him shift to his knees, body tensing as he peered cautiously over the edge of the counter, hold never loosening on her, and her eyes opened of their own violation to view the devastation around them._

_The diner was in ruins, a mixture of charred remains and other bits still burning slowly, sluggishly. Most of the front wall was completely gone, booths and all, while the sides remained remarkably intact as did the back and behind that, Mel assumed, the kitchen. The counter had indeed proved itself to be a blessing as it sheltered them from the worst of the storm…explosion…whatever it had been. Above them was a darkening sky, grey storm clouds piling up on each other like river water assaulting a dam, the first hints of precipitation already making their way down in the form of white, pure snowflakes. The roof, it seemed, had been blown straight out by the…whatever…likely saving their lives from a horrible fate, and at that thought, Mel turned to their two companions, heart frozen in sudden fear that she'd overlooked something, diagnosed unconsciousness in the place of something more serious._

_Trembling fingers felt for a pulse on her protector's neck, shoulders collapsing in relief as she found the strong, steady beat a moment later. A glance over at Mac, who'd remained close to her but taken advantage of his great size to reach the taller of the two, confirmed that the other was in similar condition: alive but unconscious. Looking down at the slack face, she reached out and brushed carefully at some dirt collected on one cheek, mind struggling to grasp what had just taken place, and what he'd done for her without a second thought. He'd saved her, protected her…from…whatever it was…and he could have…_

_"Mel," Mac said gently as he placed a careful hand on her shoulder, bringing her back to the present and grounding her. "Whoever or whatever that was, they're gone for now, but I'm not sure for how long. I think it might be best if we all get moving before they get back."_

_She jerked her head up and scanned the area quickly looking for signs of movement, having forgotten about the businessman with the white eyes, the nervous man with the black, and the Not-Caroline in the wake of the destruction. Nothing except for the gentle fall of snowflakes._

_"Back?" she asked, voice tremulous from screaming. "Why would they come back?" Fear crept back into her voice, tensed her shoulder._

_"That…thing said she was here for the Winchesters, and I think she meant these two, focused on them as she and her friend were. And, I don't think we did ourselves any favors standing in her way," Mac told her as he stood up with a groan, eyes continually scanning the surrounding area for trouble._

_"What…?" her voice trailed off as she found herself unable to think. "What are we going to do?"_

_Looking down at her briefly before swinging his eyes to the two men—boys, from his perspective—on the ground, Mac was silent for a moment before he tightened his hand in an affectionate, reassuring manner, the warmth of his rough palm soaking into her chilled skin through the thin fabric of her blouse. "What we have to," was the gravely reply, the confident tones acting like a kind of balm on her mind as it brought her further back to reality._

* * *

Sorry this one is so short, everyone, and for the delay with updating. I hope these two chapters were worth the wait. (I promise, the boys will be making a strong, focused reappearance soon now that this background story has been established.) Reviews/suggestions welcome!


	8. Mac Hasn't Come Back

_Previously: "What…?" her voice trailed off as she found herself unable to think. "What are we going to do?"_

_Looking down at her briefly before swinging his eyes to the two men—boys, from his perspective—on the ground, Mac was silent for a moment before he tightened his hand in an affectionate, reassuring manner, the warmth of his rough palm soaking into her chilled skin through the thin fabric of her blouse. "What we have to," was the gravely reply, the confident tones acting like a kind of balm on her mind as it brought her further back to reality._

* * *

**Chapter 8: Mac Hasn't Come Back.**

A harsh wind struck the side of the building, howling across the surface as it was denied entrance, the sound drawing the attention of the three people sitting at the table. Snow swirled across the glass in a furious dance, specks of white against an ominous background of impenetrable gray. Over nine inches had accumulated against the glass now, the drift falling sharply away as it approached the edge of the hidden deck. Dean suppressed a shudder—one, because there was no way he was going to let a little bit of snow worry him, and two, because he knew that it would hurt like hell, the ever-present ache in his chest just waiting for a chance to explode.

Glass of milk now resting empty in front of him, his eyes drifted longingly to the mug directly across from him. Although the coffee had long since gone cold, Dean still felt sluggish, a combination of lingering exhaustion and pain, and the caffeine seemed to call out to him, promising to fix everything, at least for a while.

Apparently, though, he was either becoming too predictable or Sam knew him far too well because a long arm extended itself and moved Mel's mug and his own out of reach, the accompanying knowing look prompting Dean to roll his eyes. "Seriously, Sam," he said under his breath as Mel continued to gaze at the window, "what could it hurt?"

"I have two words for you," Mel said without looking away from the window, a hint of smugness entering her voice. "Calcium tablets."

"Oh, come on," Dean whined, eyes widening in imitation of Sam's almost-always-effective puppy dog look. "Please." The smile he threw in was pure Dean Winchester; the resulting combination, he was sure, would lead to success and caffeine.

She peered at him out of the corner of her eye as she reached back for her cup and made a slow, deliberate show of taking a sip, causing Sam to chuckle beside him. "Give it up, Dean. I don't think she's caving."

Face dropping into a scowl, Dean sank back into his chair, mind focusing back on the situation at hand and everything they'd just been told. "Fine," he all but snapped, mood darkening from the momentarily light reprieve. "What happened after that?"

Mel's face sobered as she turned back to face the table, eyes dropping to focus on the flat surface. "Not much," she said quietly. "Mac lives…lived in an apartment above the diner, and his cabin's too far out, especially since the weather started getting pretty bad after that. So, we loaded you guys into your car and drove here. The two of you were still pretty out of, but every once in a while you'd wake up enough to mumble a few words, sounded like nonsense. Sometimes it was about demons, other times it was holy water or salt lines."

For a moment, her face flushed red as she snuck a quick glance at Dean before returning her eyes to the table. "You were, uh, pretty adamant about your car—when you were coherent—so I had Mac put her in my garage while he took my SUV out for supplies." The hand holding the mug began to roll it around in a circle, following the edge of the base. "Something about her hating the cold and never forgiving you?" From the tone of her voice, Dean knew that he'd been more descriptive than she was letting on, the smirk she was valiantly fighting to suppress causing him to settle more firmly in his seat.

Sam put a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Don't worry; Dean's already planned how to make it up to her."

The smirk won, causing her eyes to light up with amusement. "No need to worry, then," she said lightly. "She's tucked away, safe and sound. I even put a salt line across the inside of the garage door, just in case."

That one had Dean trying hard not to break out into laughter, something Sam had no such compunctions about hiding as he could feel Sam's subtle vibrations next to him, long years of proximity with each other telling him that his little brother wore a broad, silly grin. Dean was sorely tempted to give in, especially as Mel's eyes were twinkling with more merriment than she'd yet to display, but considering the concern she'd shown for his baby—and the vague sense he had that she might just be telling the truth—he didn't feel right making light of any of her actions. Considering what little she'd had to work with as far as supernatural knowledge was concerned, Mel had done better than alright so far.

"That's great," he said, infusing as much positive enthusiasm into the statement as possible.

She grinned wryly over at him, eyes losing focus as she drifted into memory again. "Like I said, it's the least I can do." As if on autopilot, her hand raised the nearly empty coffee mug for another sip, face barely registering the motion, and when she set it down again, it was back within range of Dean's longing fingers.

Sam tensed slightly next to him and leaned forward, eyes curious as he brought the focus back to the last 24 hours, subtly moving the mug away before Dean even had a chance to think about swiping it. "So you got us here. What next?"

"I couldn't get you to make much sense, but before you both dropped off, you were pretty adamant about salt lines to stop entry. Seeing as how it worked so well at the diner, I put it across every entrance in the apartment." She looked at her patio door, the ledge of which was all but buried underneath a mound of salt. "I might have gone overboard, but I…I didn't want to take any chances."

"You did great," Sam told her reassuringly, eyebrows furrowing slightly as he thought of something. "But that's an awful lot of salt; where'd you get it all?"

"Mac had me grab what was still intact from the diner, and the apartment complex keeps a bag in each entryway for the sidewalks. It's mostly elderly here, so there's a greater risk for slipping and injuries."

That explained the bag she'd used to fix the line near the front door when she'd first come in, but now it was Dean's turn to frown, the statement not having meshed with the profile of her he'd been compiling in his head. "You mean you stole from Mr. Rogers and his neighbors?"

She lifted her chin slightly in defiance, hand stilling on the mug. "It was the best I could do, and I've been keeping an eye on the sidewalk out front, shoveling it off every few hours. Not that anyone's actually going to go out in this weather." Another gust of wind buffeted the building, straining for entrance and emphasizing her words. "They'd have to be crazy."

"Yeah, well, I think the normal curve doesn't really apply right now," Dean said.

"Good point." Mel rose from her chair suddenly and went back into the kitchen, absently placing her now-empty mug into the cold dishwater as she opened the freezer and began peering through it, looking for something. Her movements were stiff, almost stilted, and Dean could tell that something else was going on. There was something left to be said that was coming up, something she didn't want to talk about.

"So you improvised and salted the doors and windows and set us up while Mac went for supplies," Sam said in recap, eyes watching her carefully as she pulled a package of something out and tore at a corner to open it without success, the movements escalating with tension after each failed attempt. "Anything else happen, anything out of the ordinary?"

"Someone try to get in?" Dean added. "Any neighbors suddenly change eye color?"

"No," she said quietly, face hidden by a curtain of dark hair that had fallen from its haphazard poised behind her ear. "Except for the snow, it's been quiet. Almost too quiet, you know? Like I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop."

"Then what has you so nervous?" Sam asked.

Her hands stilled on the package, still unopened, and she took a deep, fortifying breath before tilting her head to look at them, worry radiating out of her eyes as she silently, unconsciously begged them to fix everything.

"Mac hasn't come back yet."

She turned back to what she was doing, finally succeeding in opening the package of chicken and went about defrosting it in her tiny microwave while Sam and Dean exchanged meaningful, concerned looks.

That definitely wasn't good news, Dean knew, especially since, from what he could tell, Mac had been gone over 24 hours. The odds of him being alright weren't particularly good, and the pragmatic portion of his mind—the one that hated to be right but almost always was—said that he was already dead. Not having known the man very well, Mel's account of his actions as well as everything he'd likely done that she hadn't noticed to keep her calm and focused was probably the reason he and Sam were still alive right now. That alone was enough to garner his respect and as much sympathy as he allowed himself to feel these days.

"Did he tell you exactly where he was going?"

"Not really, but the only store near here for groceries, supplies, is Gustafson's on the other side of town. It's only a couple of minutes drive, and the snow wasn't that bad when he left. Didn't really even get bad until early this morning."

"So somewhere between there and here, something happened," Dean said, thinking out loud as he considered the situation from all angles, mind already flashing forward to think about which of their mysterious attackers had gotten to Mac and what they might have learned from him.

Sam leaned forward, chair creaking under his weight as he shifted. "Are you sure he wouldn't have gone somewhere else? Maybe to the police or a friend to get help?"

She shook her head. "I don't think so. He was adamant that we keep out of sight as much as possible. But…" Mel broke off, teeth worrying at her lower lip as her face drew into a frightened expression.

"But what?" Sam prompted.

"He might have gone back to the diner, tried to get some of his things. Mac's ex-military of some kind, and an outdoorsman, so he had a lot of survival gear around. Maybe he tried to get it, thought it was worth the risk, or that they wouldn't come back."

Dean closed his eyes even as he shook his head. As rational as the guy had come across, the idea of him returning to familiar territory—whether it be for supplies or to scan the area looking for clues as to what was going on, where the enemy had gone, etc.—made a lot of sense. Most civilians, non-hunters, even those trained to handle more stressful situations like soldiers, could not grasp the necessary steps to take when faced with a supernatural encounter.

Mel was wandering around the kitchen now, pulling things out left and right, as she prepared whatever she'd decided to focus on, and while she was distracted, Sam leaned in close and whispered softly, "You think he's still alive?"

"Not likely," Dean replied, voice flat. "Probably went back to the diner and got taken by whatever's keeping an eye on it, just in case we do go back."

"Maybe not," Sam said doubtfully."

Dean shook his head slightly, eyes still tracking Mel as she moved back and forth. "Right now, that's the preferred option 'cause if he didn't get taken there, it means whatever's after us managed to track him down and could be on its way to finding us…if they haven't already convinced him to talk."

"It's only a matter of time," Sam agreed. "Mac was driving her SUV, meaning anything with a computer could figure out who owns it and where she lives."

"So either way, we're screwed. We need to leave."

Sam sighed, "Looks that way."

"Great, just great. We've got two potential fuglies after us—one of which we have no idea what it is—snow piling up fast and making getting out of here looking less and less likely by the minute, and a chick we need to babysit until we get this thing figured out. Anything else I'm missing?"

"You're not exactly on the top of your game," Sam said with a pointed look.

"I'm f-i-n-e, Sam," Dean said, grasping at his ribs a moment later as Sam jabbed him in the side lightly, eyebrows raised in disbelief.

"Right."

"Bitch."

"Jerk."

Silence filled the apartment as the brothers lapsed into thought, both watching the girl in the kitchen as she chopped away on a cutting board, eyes completely focused on her task. In the span of a few minutes, she'd managed to wreck all of Sam's hard work from earlier, and it looked like chaos, but on a closer look, Dean felt his eyes widen in surprise as he realized that she'd been methodically working on separate meals: sandwiches of all kinds, combinations of vegetables and fruit, crackers, what looked like leftovers. It was enough to feed a small army for days, based on what she still had left scattered in front of her.

"Mac's dead, isn't he?" she asked quietly.

Dean exchanged another significant look with Sam before replying. "Probably, yeah."

"And we have to leave?"

"It's the safest option we have right now," Sam said carefully. "Whatever's out there is going to figure out where we are eventually."

"And we really don't want to be here when it does," Dean said. "No offense to your salt lines."

She shook her head to dismiss the critique. "I can't stay here either, can I? They…it…will just do to me whatever was done to Mac."

Sam's mouth tightened. "Yeah. You'll have to come with us until we sort this situation out, figure out what's going on?

Mel laughed shakily even as she bagged another sandwich, hands trembling slightly. "You know, I was kind of hoping you'd be able to explain all of this now. Make it make sense or make it go away."

"I'd like to," Dean said, voice rough as he began what felt like it was becoming a regular spiel. "But the truth is that life doesn't fit into the nice, neat, logical boxes we create. There are things out there, things that go bump in the night, things that spark every horror story you've ever heard." Pausing, Dean cast her a grim smile as he amended himself. "Well, most of them. The point is, once you know, you can never go back, not really. Monsters are real, and they're coming."

"But," Sam said, shooting Dean a look, "we've handled situations like this before, and we're going to do everything we can to keep you safe. I promise."

Dean was about to protest the false optimism his little brother was presenting—no use giving her hope when they still knew so little about the situation—when Mel let out a low chuckle, devoid of humor. "Don't make promises you can't keep," she whispered.


	9. What We Do Know

_Previously: "We've handled situations like this before," Sam said, "and we're going to do everything we can to keep you safe. I promise."_

_ Dean was about to protest the false optimism his little brother was presenting—no use giving her hope when they still knew so little about the situation—when Mel let out a low chuckle, devoid of humor. "Don't make promises you can't keep," she whispered._

* * *

**Chapter 9: What We Do Know**

The quiet, muffled sounds of someone moving around in the bedroom drifted down the hallway into the living room, where Dean once again found himself standing in front of the sliding door, staring out into the swirling snow. It was still falling relentless, showing no sign of abating, and the drift against the glass had grown exponentially in the last hour. As much as he knew they couldn't stay, he was beginning to have serious doubts about the Impala's ability to get them safely away. Even with all of the driving he'd done over the years, there came a point when the snow literally wouldn't let you continue, and if they were in the middle of nowhere when that happened… He let the thought trail off, pointedly ignoring it because the alternative was equally unpleasant, remaining here and waiting for whatever was after them to attack.

Like it or not—and he would never admit this to Sam—he wasn't going to be much help if something happened, and Mel wasn't either. So, if something came through that front door, they would be helpless, and that was something Dean hated to be, did his best to avoid. Better to get the hell out of Dodge while they could, figure out what they were up against, and then come back when they had a fighting chance.

Behind him, he could hear the sounds of Sam moving around the kitchen, once again doing his best to make it shine. Mel had finally slowed in her near-frantic cooking spree and had retreated into the bedroom to pack some of her things in preparation to leave, and the brothers had decided to leave her in peace for the moment, give her some space to process. Occasionally, Dean could hear a stifled sob, and his face tightened, hardening at yet another life that had been irreparably changed because of tangential association with the Winchesters.

"You about done in there, Samantha?" he called over his shoulder, mind forcing the image of the crying girl away as he focused on something more familiar.

A weary, irritated huff heralded Sam's entry into the room, drying a mixing bowl with a damp dishtowel. "It's Sam."

"Sure, Sammy," Dean said, eyeing the towel with a hint of a smile. "You look pretty comfortable doing the whole domestic thing."

Sam's eyes lowered slightly, and Dean winced internally as he remembered that for four years, his brother had been normal, done things like wash dishes, go to the movies, hang out with friends. "Jess liked to keep a clean kitchen," Sam said quietly, "said she could practically hear her mother telling her to 'take care of that mess.'"

Dean chuckled softly, turning his head to look at Sam out of the corner of his eye. "So that's where you got it from," he said lightly, carefully. "Gotta say, I'm grateful, annoying as it is."

Eyes still haunted, Sam nonetheless rolled his eyes. "Dean, Dad was after you all the time. I swear, it's the only thing you ever fought him on."

Dean shrugged as carefully as possible, feeling his ribs shift uneasily at the motion as he breathed cautiously until his insides settled down again. "It's not like we really stayed anyone long enough to worry about it." They really hadn't, Dean mused. Hotels, motels, temporary home after temporary home. He really couldn't remember lingering in one place long enough to become attached to it, much less care about its upkeep, except for the Impala, and even he could admit—privately—that his…passion…for keeping her clean was borderline obsessed…not that she didn't deserve it, of course. She took care of them, never left, never let him down.

Still, Dean could see that he'd revealed a bit too much with that line as Sam was getting _that _look on his face, the one that said, 'We're-so-totally-headed-for-a-chick-flick-moment.' And _that_ was getting a bit more touchy-feely than he would like—damn medication—so he rather abruptly changed the subject.

"So," he said, drawing the word out, "what do you think's going on here?"

With a pointed look that suggested the discussion was being tabled, not forgotten, Sam shrugged, sighing. "I'm not sure. I mean, based on what Mel said, there're at least two demons after us."

"That Caroline chick and her twitchy sidekick," Dean said.

Sam nodded. "Right. And from the sound of things, they've been tracking us specifically, hunting us down."

"Well, that's nothing new. We are, after all," Dean said with a grin, "on this year's hot items list."

"That's not exactly a good thing, Dean."

"Sure it is, Sammy. It means we're doing our job, doing it well, and it's making them nervous enough to come after us specifically." The thought caused a certain pride to well up in Dean, the thought that their efforts against the supernatural were actually having an impact strengthening the resolve he'd developed the day he'd witnessed his mother's death. It was their job to protect the innocent, to allow everyday people to go about their clueless lives in blissful ignorance, and in a backhanded sort of way, making it onto the demon hit list provided a certain validation to his existence, let him know that the long days, loose lifestyle, were worthwhile.

Dean crooked the corner of his mouth up into a smile as he glanced at the pictures hanging on the wall behind Sam's head, the happy, smiling camping photos he'd noticed when he'd first walked into the room. "We're doing good, Sam."

His little brother could only nod in agreement, mouth curling up in response to the self-satisfaction he sensed in Dean only to disappear almost immediately as another muffled sob ghosted down the hall and hung like a fog in the silence. "Not good enough," he whispered, the pain and fear in that soft sound bringing them both back to the harsh reality of their existence. For as many as they did save, for every evil son of a bitch they sent packing, there was always another to take its place, another victim.

"She'll deal," Dean said in a rare fit of optimism, or maybe it was pragmatic realism. "It's either that or she cracks, and you have to admit, she's done pretty good so far, all things considered. She's _barely_ holding it together, but still, at least the waterworks haven't completely shut her down yet." There, a backhanded compliment hidden under his normal, jovial, distant criticism.

Still, Sam glowered at him. "Considering the fact that her world's been turned upside down and we're about to take her away from everything familiar—including her friend, who's probably dead—I'd say she's doing great.

"And besides, as our only source of information as to what happened yesterday, we're lucky she's speaking coherently at all, much less in as much detail as she's been able to provide." Dean could practically hear the '_So there_' tagged onto the end of that forceful endorsement and suppressed a smile at his little brother's protectiveness shining through.

"She did do a good job with the narration," Dean admitted, the picture of reluctance, "although you know that accounts are always blurry after the fact, especially where our kind of encounters are concerned."

Since there was nothing Sam could say to that, he let the matter drop and returned to the original discussion. "Mel hit the description of a demon on the head: black eyes, enhanced strength, knowledge of our real names. Enough to let us know that we were the intended targets."

"At least of the two demons," Dean quantified as he thought back over what they'd been told.

Sam nodded. "And it looks like one of them is a practitioner—if she was going toe-to-toe with that first guy Mel described—which means we're going to have to be extra careful. The standard exorcism might not be enough."

"But at least that's something we're familiar with," Dean countered, turning carefully so he could lean against the wall. "The other guy, the one with the white eyes, you ever heard of anything like that before?"

Sam sighed heavily, face narrowing as he focused. "No."

"Me either, but I'll bet he has something to do with this weather," Dean said, gesturing at the wintery chaos next to him. His tone was flooded with a skeptical certainty, the urge to leap to a somewhat logical conclusion tempered by past experiences of being burned by rushing to assumptions.

"If not,' it's a pretty big coincidence. Two supernatural creatures go at it and right after, the weather starts acting up?" Sam's face was equally skeptical, his voice incredulous.

"Yeah," Dean agreed, "I don't think so, either, although it might not have been him. We've seen demons with powers before, like Meg or the Yellow-Eyed Demon. Could be that whoever tracked us here is trying to keep us from leaving."

"Or an unrelated third party we haven't seen yet," Sam said gloomily, bowl and dishtowel long-since forgotten as he stared outside.

"Right. Thor's on a rampage, in Michigan, in September, because he's tired of doing it in Iceland where everybody's like 'Whatever. More snow. Big deal.'" Dean really wished he could sigh. "Dude, this sucks."

"Yup," Sam said as he turned to head back to the kitchen, Dean trailing behind him. Leaning down, Sam opened a cupboard to put the bowl away, causing Dean to smirk at how quickly his little brother had picked up where everything belonged. "How about we focus on what we do know and go from there?"

"Right," Dean said, moving back to the table where he grabbed the chair Mel had been using and sat down carefully, bracing himself on the smooth, recently cleaned table surface. "Demons. Salt, holy water, devil's trap, and an exorcism ritual with all the trimmings. Our standard trap 'em and send 'em packing back to hell."

"Unless she's too powerful," Sam reminded him as he began draining the last of the water from the sink. "In which case, we're going to need to do some research. Maybe Bobby would know."

"Aw, crap," Dean said, hand flying to his pocket in search of his phone. "Bobby." In the midst of everything, they had forgotten their original intent in driving through this area: heading to help Bobby with a vampire problem. Normally, when they were converging on a hunt like this, Bobby liked to keep close tabs on the boys, contact every day or so, and the 24 hour blackout had to be driving the older man crazy. Sometimes, Dean thought as he looked for the missing mobile, the man could be worse than Sam when it came to worrying.

When his search came up empty, Dean started to get out of the chair, forgetting about his ribs in his haste, and he bit back a moan as his vision darkened for a moment, causing him to freeze halfway up, hunched over like an old man, gasping for breath. The whole being laid up routine was really starting to get to him, he though hazily as intense spikes of pain shot through him. At the same time, another part of him prayed fervently that Sam wouldn't notice this latest episode.

A moment later, in an unusual serendipitous moment, Dean's wish was granted as a thunderous crash resonated throughout the apartment, shaking it to its very foundations. Dean's body tensed further under the vibrating onslaught, which was followed almost immediately by a second impact. This one, it seemed, was successful as it was accompanied by a whip-like crack at the end and a terrified scream from the vicinity of the bedroom.

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I'm sorry for the delay in updating, everyone. It's getting to be that time of year, so while I'm going to try to stick to my schedule of weekly updates, I'm afraid I can't guarantee anything.

The reviews help quite a bit in propelling me forward—a good guilt trip usually does—and I wanted to thank deewinchester, dreamlitnight, nexus432, friendly, and JenF for their comments and support. You guys make my day!


	10. You Ought to Know Better

_Previously: In an unusual serendipitous moment, Dean's wish was granted as a thunderous crash resonated throughout the apartment, shaking it to its very foundations. Dean's body tensed further under the vibrating onslaught, which was followed almost immediately by a second impact. This one, it seemed, was successful as it was accompanied by a whip-like crack at the end and a terrified scream from the vicinity of the bedroom._

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**Chapter 10: You Ought to Know Better**

Still trapped by the lingering vestiges of pain coursing through his body, Dean could only watch as Sam dropped the towel he'd been holding and sprinted for the bedroom, hand reaching for the gun tucked into his waistband as he went. The pleading tone in the feminine voice hung in the air like a death toll, calling to the boys like a Siren as it spurred their protective impulses into overdrive. Too far, Dean thought dimly in his mind as his big brother instincts screamed at Sam to be careful. You'd better not get yourself killed, Sammy, Dean swore as he fought for control of his body, or I'll kick your ass.

By the time the white cloth had settled on the floor, Dean propelled himself into motion, the thought that his brother was heading into an unknown situation without him finally overriding the pain he was feeling. Forgetting both the painful ribs and twisted angle as adrenaline began to surge through his body, he threw himself down the hallway intent upon the bedroom door. However, at the last minute he changed directions abruptly, hand reaching out for the doorframe to swing himself into the bathroom, thereby granting him access to the bedroom's second entrance. Maybe, just maybe, he thought as he concentrated on quieting his steps, he could get a jump on whatever it was that had caused Mel to scream. And, he added a bit ruefully as he reached for the cheap, metallic door handle, provide the distraction he was sure his overly eager little brother needed.

Turning the handle carefully, Dean eased the door open and peered into the room, silently cursing the bad angle the doorway afforded him. From here, he could see a large, gaping hole where the wall connected to the adjacent apartment had been plowed through. Splintered wood and plaster created a ragged edge, and the tinge of red he could see on several of the large fragments indicated that whatever had come through, it had not entered unscathed. The gap revealed an empty, dark space beyond—an empty apartment, thank God—although Dean had a hard time seeing it because of the imposing figure standing in way, framed in darkness like a demonic angel.

Resisting the urge to close his eyes in pained regret, and aided by years of training to never take his eyes off a dangerous target, Dean pulled out his own weapon as he watched Mac's face twist itself into a terrifying, cold grin that looked completely wrong on the strong visage. Eyes as black as night, the demon wearing the former diner owner was completely focused on something just out of Dean's range of vision, the wall separating the sink-and-closet area he was currently in from the rest of the bedroom blocking his view. Even without a direct line of sight, however, he could sense his brother in the other section of the room—probably where he'd charged right in—and he just knew that he was standing in front of Mel in a defensive stance. In the far corner, he guessed, which would put as much distance as possible between the two humans and the demon currently facing them. It was also, Dean knew, within reach of both the salt on the windowsill and the bag of equipment that had been left—foolishly, now that he thought about it, cursing himself as he did so for such a careless maneuver—behind in favor of exploring the apartment and then eating breakfast.

"Who are you?" came Sam's voice from the main portion of the room as Dean brought his gun up to bear and tried to come up with a plan. Keep him talking, Sammy. "What do you want with us?"

The Mac-look-alike laughed humorously, voice pitching up higher than the voice Dean dimly remembered from the day before. "You're seriously asking me that? After everything you and your family have done, you're actually shocked that we're coming after you?"

There was a shuffling sound, followed by a muffled whimper, and Dean could imagine Mel reacting to the sound of her friend's voice, the pang of regret he felt sharpening before he ruthlessly shoved it aside.

"Then it's me and my brother you're after. Leave these two alone."

"Sammy, Sammy, Sammy, you ought to know better by now. They got in the way, helped you, screwed up our plans, and I, well, I just won't have it. Ruined a perfectly good meat suit back at the diner, and just when I was getting comfortable in it, too." The dark eyes crinkled in suppressed mirth. "So fragile, humans. Even this body; so large and strong, yet so very, very fragile." Lifting a roughened hand up into the air, the demon examined its lined surface, eyeing the gashes created by the force of breaking through the wall, watching with a morbidly fascinated glance as dark droplets ran down the exposed forearm into the rolled up cuffs of the plaid flannel shirt. "The slightest provocation and you leak like a sieve. I can already feel this suit rotting around me."

For a moment, there was silence, and Dean watched the gruesome smile slide off the demon's face in conjunction with a creaking of the floor from the other portion of the room, light enough that he knew it wasn't Sam shifting his weight. Wishing, and not for the first time, that he had x-ray vision, he could only imagine what was going on, so when the emotionally thick voice of Mel spoke a moment later, coming from a slightly different position than he'd heard her initial pained sounds, he silently cursed his lack of awareness.

"You evil son of a bitch," she said lowly, the words forced from tight vocal chords. "Mac is a good person."

"Mac's pathetic," said man's voice shot back. "He's in here screaming right now, begging me to let him go. Even offering you up as a replacement, women being my preferred packaging and all. Doing everything he can to save his own skin. Why he's…"

The slight clink of glass against wood was all the warning Dean had before a translucent object, the glass of water that had been resting on the nightstand when he woke up, flew at the face of the demon, flinging liquid as it went. As far as distractions went—and given the surprised expression on the demon's face, _no one_ had seen that one coming—the set-up could not have been better, and Dean propelled himself into action, throwing himself into the room, gun raised in front of him.

Several things happened then which threw the situation into even further chaos. A deep, resonant shriek rocked the room, corresponding with another howl as a fourth figure hurtled out of the dark depths of the neighboring apartment and plowed into Dean, sending them both careening into the wall on the opposite side of the bed from Sam and a now-standing Mel, Dean noted vaguely as he flew past only to impact with a sickening thud and slide down to the floor, stars dancing before his eyes.

Simultaneously, Dean could _feel_ his brother moving, the knowledge that Sam would not have allowed that perfect distraction to pass by deeply imbedded within his subconscious. The sounds of a fight reached his ringing ears a moment before the world focused down to his throat as two strong hands wrapped around it and began squeezing tightly, pressing down with enough force that he thought his windpipe might buckle under the strain. Pain assaulted him, demanding his full attention, and as he forced his eyes open, Dean found himself face-to-face with the demon's partner, the nervous man from the diner, whose eyes were wide, reminiscent of a psychotic Renfield.

Great, Dean thought as his hands scrambled uselessly against the leering face, seeking desperately for a weak point which would cause his assailant to lose his grip. I'm gonna get killed by the sidekick.

Darkness began to encroach upon his vision, swirling in like grey storm clouds from the edges, and as his protests weakened and his eyes began to roll back in his head, he almost missed the blurry figure rise up behind his attacker and bring an equally blurry object down squarely on his head. In and of itself doing little damage, the handful of stinging white pellets which immediately followed had a more immediate reaction as the threatening hands immediately disappeared and sweet oxygen flooded Dean's lungs, his own gasping breaths and pounding heart blocking out any other sounds.

Reflexively, he rolled away, ending up braced against the wall in an effort to support his battered form, and the movement saved his life as a pointed boot cracked into the plaster where his head had been only a moment before, the suit-clad leg not three inches from his nose.

Shocked into action by the narrow escape and years of training and conditioning under his father that would not be ignored, Dean threw himself into a roll which carried him up and over the bed, near the window and the bag of supplies still resting at the foot of the bed where he'd seen it that morning, a fine layer of dust and debris covering it. The spectacularly heroic motion was tainted slightly by the fact that his bad ankle buckled slightly under the sudden pressure, throwing him off balance and onto his knees, but image wasn't as important as results, and the nearness to the ground actually worked in his favor as his hands dove for weapons of any kind.

Having landed with his back to the window, Dean's automatic search—the intimate knowledge he had of the bag's contents allowing him to freedom to take in his surroundings—saw him focusing on his little brother in a tangled mass of pride and horror. Not quite in a chokehold grip, Sam's longer reach and the wooden cross he currently had pressed against the Mac-look-alike's cheek holding the demon at bay, the youngest Winchester was forcing rough Latin words out of his compressed throat. Even in such a tense situation, steel trap that was Sam's mind could conjure an exorcism at will.

Motion to the left drew Dean's attention away, and he swung the shotgun he had just laid his hands on up in one swift motion even as he himself rose, pulling the trigger as the second demon staggered to its feet and headed toward Sam's unprotected back. Rock salt shot through the air, peppering the wall behind the demon as well as liberally impacting his right side, swinging the body around in an arch which carried it nearly to the bedroom door.

Firing a second time, Dean considered going after it only to dismiss the demon in favor of helping his brother, who was also blocking his way around the bed, the cramped quarters they were operating in finally making themselves know. He raised the gun to fire again, this time at the Mac-look-alike but stopped at the thought that some stray rounds might hit Sam. Stepping closer, he thrust the end of the gun at Mac's side, finger tightening as another blur threw itself at his arm, throwing the shot wide as Mel pushed frantically at him, pleading face—stained with tears and blood—mouthing nonsensical appeals at him that he only half heard as his eyes remained locked on his brother's steadily reddening face.

"Get out of the way!" he yelled as he shoved her away with his left arm, causing her to fall backwards onto bed, even as he pushed himself forward toward Sam once more, gun swinging up once again.

Dimly, he was aware of Sam's continued litany and Mel's desperate pleas as the thundering roar in his ears grew louder, fueled by the chaos. The gun seemed to weight more than normal, yet it moved just as effortlessly as always—if only a bit more slowly, as though the entire world had slowed down, a child with a universal remote who'd pressed the wrong button and had reduced reality to half-speed.

Feeling the gun strike the demon's side, Dean focused on Sam's words as much as he was able, trying to figure out where he was in the exorcism ritual. If he was close to finishing, he might not need to shoot the man, the close range of the shot promising to be quite painful and fairly dangerous to the host. At the same time, however, a part of him was screaming at him not to hesitate, to take out the demon while he had the chance. The other one wasn't completely taken care of yet, either, and could enter back into the fray at any moment, and Dean knew that this internal struggle, lasting in actuality only a fraction of a second, would likely turn around and bite him in the ass if he didn't act now.

Again, Dean's finger tightened on the trigger of the gun, testing its tension, and just as he felt himself reach the point of no return, twin wails assaulted the air as two black clouds rose up to the ceiling, coiling around each other like writhing snakes. A brilliant orange flame engulfed them, swallowing up the darkness in favor of a blinding light, before that too vanished and left the room in a deathly silence.

Mac dropped to the floor like a marionette whose strings had been cut, the boneless motion suggesting a complete lack of control over his body Dean was all too familiar with, and Sam wasn't far behind, although his collapse gave off at least the appearance of a controlled collapse. The motion brought his back into contact with the chest at the foot of the bed, practically at Dean's feet, and Dean breathed a mental sigh of relief as he watched the shaggy, sandy head begin a lazy scan of the room. Sammy moving meant that Sammy was okay, relatively speaking.

"You okay?" he asked in a gravelly voice, just to be sure, shoulders rising and falling with suppressed breaths as he felt his chest begin to tighten painfully. Once the adrenaline wore off, he was going to pay for all of the moving and twisting he had just done.

"Yeah," was the equally hoarse reply, and Dean allowed his left hand to fall down on his brother's head as he himself turned his eyes to the two men sprawled across the floor, red droplets beginning to stain the carpet beneath each of them.

"Yeah," Dean whispered in agreement.

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Alright, this turned out to be more of an action chapter than anything I've tackled this far, and I'm curious about your reactions to it. Parts of it don't flow as well as I'd like, so constructive feedback would be wonderful…and general support is always welcome!


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